teeth.” Claire moved to join him by the warmth of the flames. He removed the wet blanket and tossed it into the corner. “Still you shiver. Remove your wet clothing, I will find you something dry.” With a quick reach into the saddlebags, Ian offered her a dry shirt and said, “It may nay be the cleanest but ‘tis dry.” Placing the shirt in Claire’s hands, he started to help her remove her sweater.
Gently pushing the overly helpful hands away, Claire said, “I can manage myself. Would you mind turning around?”
Okay, dry clothes are a good start. Warm and dry are good things. I can survive one night here, right? The disgusting will eventually wash off me. I hope they have soap at his home. Has someone invented soap yet? If they have, it hasn’t caught on here. But the shirt smells good. The shirt smells like Ian.
With a quick grin, Ian moved toward the bed and turned. He needed to remove his wet things also. He tried to focus on his own needs, removing his clothing, drying himself, and wrapping the course sheet around his waist, willing himself not to hear her wet clothing hitting the floor, not listening to the sounds of the drying sheet warming her body and certainly not mixing those images with the sounds of passion, or what passed for passion here. Bunching the sheet in the front, he waited for permission to turn.
Claire finally spoke. “You can turn around now. All done.”
The sight that greeted him was a fine one. Her back was to him, and she faced the fire. The shirt covered her to the knees and the outline of her womanly form was visible due to the flames. Ian’s breath left him in a whoosh of air. When Claire turned to face him, her hair unbound, a drying cloth in hand, and more of her figure revealed to him, his body sucked the air back in with force.
“Are you all right?” Claire asked with a voice filled with concern.
“Fine, I am fine,” Ian lied through gritted teeth. “Just cold, Claire, just cold.” He moved slowly to join her, afraid the urge to pounce on the woman would win. Taking her hands, they felt warmer, but not warm enough. He rubbed hers within his own, keeping his full concentration on her hands, not looking to see what the lacing of the shirt on her body would reveal. He felt her flinch. That’s when he noticed her bruises. “Your hands, the backs are bruised. You should have told me you were injured.”
Claire answered, “They’re fine. I bruise easily. It’s from the hitting and the blocking and the fighting. It doesn’t matter. They’ll fade quickly.” Her eyes closed on her last words.
“Try not to think on it, lass. ‘Tis done. Whoever trained you would be pleased at your skill.” Ian wondered out loud, “Who trained you? Do all women of your place have such skill?” He knew he had found the right question as Claire’s smile returned.
“Michael trained me, I guess. He owns the place where I work. They do this there, teach people to defend themselves. Most do it for exercise and for fun, not for . . .” Her voice trailed off, not willing to say “for killing.” “Anyway, most don’t. But my Dad thought it was important. We used to do the classes together before he died.”
There had been little mention of Claire’s father in any detail yet. “Tell me how you gained such ability.” Ian’s goal was to keep her talking and get her mind off of the battle and death.
“I wanted to go to the mall with Brooke and no parents. My dad was a bit overprotective. We argued about what I could and couldn’t do alone. Somehow we ended up with me taking self-defense classes. When we went to sign up, Michael talked my dad into more, something for both of us. We started going twice a week together. It was nice, that time just me and Dad.”
Claire continued. “After Dad died, it was Michael who talked me into continuing. Said it would make my father proud. Said I should never quit and that I still needed to be strong. So I stayed. Then Mom took me and
Gently pushing the overly helpful hands away, Claire said, “I can manage myself. Would you mind turning around?”
Okay, dry clothes are a good start. Warm and dry are good things. I can survive one night here, right? The disgusting will eventually wash off me. I hope they have soap at his home. Has someone invented soap yet? If they have, it hasn’t caught on here. But the shirt smells good. The shirt smells like Ian.
With a quick grin, Ian moved toward the bed and turned. He needed to remove his wet things also. He tried to focus on his own needs, removing his clothing, drying himself, and wrapping the course sheet around his waist, willing himself not to hear her wet clothing hitting the floor, not listening to the sounds of the drying sheet warming her body and certainly not mixing those images with the sounds of passion, or what passed for passion here. Bunching the sheet in the front, he waited for permission to turn.
Claire finally spoke. “You can turn around now. All done.”
The sight that greeted him was a fine one. Her back was to him, and she faced the fire. The shirt covered her to the knees and the outline of her womanly form was visible due to the flames. Ian’s breath left him in a whoosh of air. When Claire turned to face him, her hair unbound, a drying cloth in hand, and more of her figure revealed to him, his body sucked the air back in with force.
“Are you all right?” Claire asked with a voice filled with concern.
“Fine, I am fine,” Ian lied through gritted teeth. “Just cold, Claire, just cold.” He moved slowly to join her, afraid the urge to pounce on the woman would win. Taking her hands, they felt warmer, but not warm enough. He rubbed hers within his own, keeping his full concentration on her hands, not looking to see what the lacing of the shirt on her body would reveal. He felt her flinch. That’s when he noticed her bruises. “Your hands, the backs are bruised. You should have told me you were injured.”
Claire answered, “They’re fine. I bruise easily. It’s from the hitting and the blocking and the fighting. It doesn’t matter. They’ll fade quickly.” Her eyes closed on her last words.
“Try not to think on it, lass. ‘Tis done. Whoever trained you would be pleased at your skill.” Ian wondered out loud, “Who trained you? Do all women of your place have such skill?” He knew he had found the right question as Claire’s smile returned.
“Michael trained me, I guess. He owns the place where I work. They do this there, teach people to defend themselves. Most do it for exercise and for fun, not for . . .” Her voice trailed off, not willing to say “for killing.” “Anyway, most don’t. But my Dad thought it was important. We used to do the classes together before he died.”
There had been little mention of Claire’s father in any detail yet. “Tell me how you gained such ability.” Ian’s goal was to keep her talking and get her mind off of the battle and death.
“I wanted to go to the mall with Brooke and no parents. My dad was a bit overprotective. We argued about what I could and couldn’t do alone. Somehow we ended up with me taking self-defense classes. When we went to sign up, Michael talked my dad into more, something for both of us. We started going twice a week together. It was nice, that time just me and Dad.”
Claire continued. “After Dad died, it was Michael who talked me into continuing. Said it would make my father proud. Said I should never quit and that I still needed to be strong. So I stayed. Then Mom took me and
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